Slanting a look at Mr. Chen, Glory felt a spark of approval. He was surveilling the room and took no notice of the barmaids’ charms. It was, she decided, quite professional of him.
He cut a swath through the throng, and she hurried to catch up. They circulated around the hall before entering another chamber, this one dedicated to gambling. Crowds surrounded the tables where players wagered on cards and dice. As Glory scouted for Farwell through the haze of cigar smoke, she noted the way Mr. Chen navigated his way around inebriated louts. He moved like water, finding the path of least resistance. When men found themselves stumbling out of his path, they did not even register that he’d displaced them.
I wish I knew how to do that, she thought wistfully.
They continued into another section of the club, and Glory was so caught up in admiring the master’s technique that she failed to see him halt. She collided into him, stumbling back a few steps.
Heavens, it is like running into a brick wall.
Pivoting, Mr. Chen steadied her. “Any sign of Farwell?”
Balance regained, she surveyed the patrons drinking at long tables facing a curtained stage. As she scanned the faces, a voice boomed. A portly man had come through the velvet curtains, dressed in a garish red jacket with epaulettes and braided gold trim.
“Gents, I’ve a real treat for ye all this evening,” he announced. “The show you’ve all been waiting for, the jewel o’ Fanny Bottom’s crown. The amazing spectacle that cannot be seen anywhere but within these walls. Put your ’ands together for the one, the only…Fantastical Female Fighters!”
The crowd whistled and stomped as the curtains swept apart.
At first glance, the revealed sparring ring was not unlike the one in the Angels’ training chamber. Then a pair of footmen appeared, efficiently rolling off the cloth that had covered the floor of the ring to reveal a sunken pit filled with a dark, oozing substance…mud? Moments later, a brunette and a redhead strutted onto the stage, and catcalls erupted from the audience.
Heat bloomed in Glory’s cheeks as she took in the women’s voluptuous forms. Their ensembles were skimpy: strips of cloth bound their rounded breasts, and tiny loincloths barely hid their lower parts. The brunette’s costume was embellished with green baize cutouts in the shape of leaves while the redhead’s bore sequined orange flames.
“Sit your arses down! You ain’t made o’ glass, you know,” a voice shouted behind Glory. “Paid good money to see me some tits this eve.”
Glory turned to look at the florid-faced fellow sitting behind her. He made a rude hand gesture.
“Pardon,” Mr. Chen said calmly. “We did not mean to block the view.”
He nudged her toward the nearest bench.
When they were seated, he said in an undertone, “Do not get distracted. Stay focused on finding the suspect.”
Once again, Glory was impressed by the master’s indifference to the debauchery. Unlike the other males who were howling like rabid hyenas, he ignored the half-naked women now wrestling in the mud.
“Sitting near the exit, to the right of the stage,” he said in a low voice. “Is that Farwell?”
Glory’s nape tingled at the sight of the large, pugnacious-looking fellow.
With a quiver of excitement, she said, “That’s him.”
She started to rise. Mr. Chen closed a hand around her arm, keeping her in her seat.
“If we get up now, we’ll block the view and cause a ruckus. We don’t want to scare Farwell off. Wait until after the show.”
He had a point, of course. Patience truly wasn’t one of her virtues.
Tapping her foot, she glanced back at the stage, where the brunette and redhead were still tussling. To the delight of the roaring crowd, the women were now topless.
Glory slanted him a glance. “You just don’t want to miss the show.”
Amusement flashed in the master’s eyes.
“I prefer less obvious displays,” he murmured.
For some reason, her cheeks burned at his comment. Thank goodness she’d worn sideburns and a mustache; otherwise, her blushing might give away her disguise.
The fight finally came to an end, with the brunette emerging victorious. She performed a victory lap around the stage, her bare, mud-smeared breasts jiggling. She brought the crowd to their feet as she blew kisses and bent to collect the coins they tossed in tribute.
Glory craned her head in Farwell’s direction. “He’s on the move.”
